


Not so cute and harmless apparently

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Mindfuck, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't make a habit of falling asleep in the afternoons, doesn't even remember lying down, and it's lucky he woke when he did because any later and Sam would be waiting for him in the dark, or worse, walking home alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not so cute and harmless apparently

“ _Asshole!_ ” Dean shouts at the Toyota's tail lights, but the fucker just pootles off down the road, oblivious. They're probably heading to the same school to pick up their kid in a nice warm car, and the driver likely didn't see Dean in the twilight, or the sheet of muddy water they sent his way. People in cars don't think about people without cars, fact of life. Dad took the Impala to Montana in September and Dean hasn't driven her for months. His fingers ache for the curve of her wheel.

 

Dean crosses the street onto Lincoln Drive, picking up the pace. He doesn't make a habit of falling asleep in the afternoons, doesn't even remember lying down, and it's lucky he woke when he did because any later and Sam would be waiting for him in the dark, or worse, walking home alone. It's not something Dean's going to do again in a hurry. When he'd woken up he'd been totally disorientated; hadn't even known who or where he was. Luckily, there had been motel stationary beside the bed and Dean had remembered: soccer practice, Thursday, Sam.

 

Sam is fourteen now and thinks he doesn't need picking up like a kid, so Dean says he needs help carrying the grocery shopping and they go to the store on the way home. Every Thursday for the past six months has been soccer practice then grocery shopping. It's as much of a routine as they've ever had.

 

Dean thinks about the mirror in their room and how it's starting to creep him out. His image had been blurred when he'd woken up, whichever way he'd looked at it and, although he's never seen one, Dean's first thought had been of a two-way mirror. A slip of paper down the back had put paid to that worry though, and he'd been forced to conclude that it was just a crappy mirror. The closest comparison is the polished metal in truck-stop bathrooms, when they even have mirrors. What's bugging Dean is that he could swear the mirror had been normal before he fell asleep, just a regular mirror where he'd fixed his hair a hundred times, with Sam rolling his eyes and being generally impatient over his shoulder. When they get back to the motel he's covering the thing with a bed sheet.

 

Dean feels oddly displaced. His feet hit the sidewalk as though they're a long way away and the cold tips of his ears, nose and fingers feel like they belong to someone else. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Maybe this is one of those out-of-body experiences Bobby's so fond of. It's like the world's a dream and Dean can't wake up. “Are we alive and dreaming or just dead and remembering?” he asks himself quietly; a graffiti quote from a school desk that Sam had liked the sound of.

 

Thinking about Sam feels better, familiar and clear, so Dean focusses on it. He imagines what would happen if he was late for Sam, if Sam was ambushed by bullies. Dean would hit them with the kinds of truths that kids remember for the rest of their lives, and he'd make them bleed for daring to hurt Sam. Imagining the scenario in detail feels good, like always, and Dean breaks into a jog.

 

Sometimes Dean lies awake at night cooking up scenarios where Sam gets hurt or trapped and Dean rescues him. The fantasy of saving Sam, fighting for him in a frenzy of self-righteous fury, is more potent than any jerk-off fantasy. Dean can lie there for hours, heart pounding and fists curled in an ecstasy of imagination, thinking about the lengths he would go to in order to keep Sammy safe.

 

 

****

 

 

Sam knows something's up as soon as he enters the tiny police station. Nobody's manning the desk but it's more than that, it's hunter's instinct. “Hello?” he calls, “Sherrif Segar?” There's a discarded firearm on the floor and Sam takes out his own as he moves behind the desk. “It's Agent Delp,” he says, keeping his voice normal and friendly, “We forgot to take Mrs Gomez's address.”

 

He hears them before he sees them, the rhythmic slurping that kaies make as they feed, and it turns Sam's stomach. But a feeding kaie is a vulnerable kaie. Sam turns the corner and finds Sheriff Segar cradled in the arms of the male kaie like a lover. Sam stalks them, undetected, and slams the butt of his gun into the back of the kaie's head. It detaches from the sheriff and rolls away into the cell, backing up against the wall and showing Sam a mouthful of stalactite teeth, half stunned.

 

The sheriff crumples to the floor and starts crawling, apparently fascinated by the shadows cast by the cell bars. “Gumuma?” Sheriff Segar says, slapping his palm on the floor where the light changes, and Sam hisses in frustration.

 

“Where is she?” Sam says, closing in on the kaie and using his size to loom, “Where's your mate?”

 

The kaie laughs and it gusts like the opening of tombs. “ _With your brotherrrrrr_ ,” it rasps, extending its freakishly long tongue and curling the tip at Sam in an obscene gesture, the last gesture this kaie will ever make. Sam slides the machete from his concealed spine holster and takes the thing's head off with a stroke.

 

Before the head has even stopped rolling Sam is running from the corridor, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Dean had gone back to their room. He's not picking up.

 

Behind Sam, blue light spews out of the kaie's mouth. Most of it follows Sam, lazily making its way out of the station, but a single strand finds Sherrif Segar, bored now with the shadows and poking at the Kaie's body instead. The blue light trickles in through the Sheriff's nose and mouth. When it's done the sheriff gets to his feet, swaying. “Holy schmoly,” he says, and vomits.

 

 

****

 

Dean gets to the school but Sam's not there yet, even though the playing fields are empty and practice is clearly over. He waits, slouched back, one foot resting against the chicken wire fence. A couple minutes pass before a girl appears, walking Dean's way. Dean straightens up. He might be woozy from yesterday's liquor, or that bump on the head, or whatever the hell happened, but he's not dead.

 

She's tall with a pretty face, legs for miles and brown hair that almost touches her shoulders. Dean whistles softly in appreciation. He'd thought leg-warmers went out of fashion in the 80s, but what does he know about chick-fashion? He gives her his best smile, the one that wins him free pie and blow jobs, but the girl looks nervous and crosses the street. Dean frowns. Not so cute and harmless apparently.

 

Five minutes turns into ten, then fifteen, and Dean starts to get nervous. Something rustles in the bushes across the street, probably a squirrel. Dean should have remembered to bring his cell phone but it's a new piece of equipment and he can't get used to having one. His head's just not right. His hand goes to the back of his jeans and he's surprised (but pleased) to find that he did bring his gun, although on closer inspection it's not his gun. Huh. He must have picked up one of Dad's by mistake.

 

“C'mon Sammy,” Dean mutters. How long does it take to change out of a soccer kit anyway? Dean's gonna hand Sam's ass to him; he knows Dean will be waiting.

 

The thing in the bushes moves again and it's too subtle, and too large, to be a squirrel. Dean tenses, gun drawn but hidden in his jacket. What is it that Dad's hunting and why the fuck can't Dean remember? And why are there no other kids leaving soccer practice? Dean wants to go to the school office and ask but if he moves and then Sam comes out here...

 

Dean doesn't know what's lurking across the street or how to fight it. Something's definitely up with his brain and the afternoon is quickly going to shit, but priority one is, and always has been, to protect Sam. So Dean's standing his ground. For now.

 

 

****

 

 

There's blood, sticky pools of it at the foot of Dean's bed. Sam tastes it. This isn't a skill he's shared with Dean, the ability to determine human blood from other types, because anything relating to the whole demon blood saga is still a touchy subject. This blood is not Dean's. It's not demon blood either, but something in between: monster blood.

 

Sam forces himself to spit and spit until the taste is all but gone. He tells himself that the urge to get down on all fours and lick up the rest isn't real; that it's just his brain supplying the expectedly gruesome flashbacks.

 

If Dean injured the kaie then does that mean it had tried to feed on Dean? Dean's cell lies abandoned on the bedside table and that's a bad, bad sign.

 

There's a light spotting of blood leading out the door. It's not much but it's enough to make a trail that Sam can follow, and it's the only lead Sam has.

 

 

****

 

 

Dean's so far from cute and harmless by the time a cop car eventually cruises by that the driver does a double take and pulls over to question him. Dean says he's twenty one but the cop's not convinced and he wants ID. Dean fishes in his jacket's inner pocket and pulls out an FBI badge. He's so far off his game that a huff of laughter escapes when he sees it, because _what the fuck?_ “Would'ya look at that?” Dean says. Has his voice always been this deep?

 

The cop looks about two seconds away from shoving Dean up against the car for a grope but then Dean remembers the gun, the one that's been in his other hand the whole time. He pulls it out and points it at the cop.

 

A man rounds the corner and runs at them, yelling. He's a giant. _Beautiful_ , Dean thinks giddily, _graceful._

 

“Dean, no!” the man shouts. “Wait!” And it's Sam, but that's not right because Sam's a fourteen year old kid, and Dean doesn't... he can't... His vision swims and he's dimly aware, as he crumples, of impossibly strong arms and an equally impossible familiar smell.

 

 

****

 

“Put the gun down fella,” the cop says. Sam ignores the command but keeps Dean's gun levelled at the ground.

 

“FBI,” he says, flipping his ID.

 

The cop eyes him warily. “Yours as fake as his?” he says, gesturing to Dean's prone form.

 

“Nothing fake about them,” Sam says with authority, “And unless you want to end up like Sheriff Segar I suggest you listen up. There's a monster in the bushes across the street. She's hurt, badly, but still really strong and she needs to feed or she'll die.”

 

The cop glances to the bushes which have gone absolutely still. “What-”

 

“Just listen. It's either me or you, and she's going to go for you because you're smaller and weaker and you're going to let it happen, because when she's feeding she's weak and I'm going to take her head off.”

 

“Look man,” the cop says, hands out as though to fend off Sam's crazy. He looks young and out of his depth. “I don't know what you're on-”

 

She's so quick that even though Sam's watching for her he only sees a blur. She's strong too, despite losing her partner and all that blood, and Sam runs his tongue over his teeth, remembering the tang.

 

The cop is, unsurprisingly, not onboard with just letting it happen, but it makes very little difference. She prizes his mouth open and covers it with her own in a twisted parody of a kiss. The cop kicks and flails but she catches his wrists and he has nowhere to go, unable to draw his head back and overpowered by her physical strength. His eyes roll wildly but his body stills, muscles relaxing against his will, and she begins to feed. Sam needs her to be deep in the trance of it when he strikes. He counts to five, bringing the machete to hand. Dampness spreads down the cop's uniform pants, his body's final surrender.

 

As soon as the  _ slurp-slurp _ has settled into a regular pattern, Sam grabs the cop by the hair and pulls him down and to the side. It leaves the kaie vulnerable, her neck turned at arm's length for a moment, just long enough to swing the machete one-handed. The blow has all the force of practice and the blade cuts in deep, almost halfway. She reaches for the cop again with her claws, driven to feed even as she dies, and Sam shoves him away, out of range. His second, two-handed blow takes her head clean off. 

 

 

****

 

 

Dean wakes to the see the big guy taking a ...woman's? No, a _monster's_ head off with a  machete. Ideally he'd like a moment to lie back and process the fact that this new guy is a hunter too, but the head comes rolling towards him and he has to scrabble back or be touched by the thing. It comes to rest at the tip of Dean's boot and then the weirdest thing happens to him: Blue light pours out of the creature's mouth, separating out into streams. Most go up and keep on going but one stream of light goes to the cop and the other comes to Dean.

 

As it pours into him, Dean fills up with pain. There's loss and there's death, Dad's and then Sam's _,_ and Dean screams with the agony of it. There's a lifetime in Hell, Sam without a soul, angels and demons and blood, so much blood...

 

“Dean!” Sam's shaking him, “It's okay, look at me. _Dean_.”

 

He remembers. Shit, he remembers that he'd fainted like a girl, and Sam's gonna get his teeth into that as soon as he realises Dean's okay. “Ugh. I'm okay,” Dean says.

 

Sam's constipated look eases a bit, and he pulls Dean into a suffocating hug, squeezing the life right back into him. “What do you remember?” Sam says, fierce little brother.

 

“I remember,” Dean reassures him, “But I was eighteen again for a while there, waiting for you after soccer practice. That winter we stayed here?”

 

“Shit.” Sam squints at the school across the darkened playing fields. “John Adams High? You always pretended to need help grocery shopping 'cause you didn't want me walking home in the dark.” A small smile plays about Sam's lips.

 

“Shut up,” Dean says.

 

Sam grins. He cups Dean's reddening face and forces the reciprocal smile out of him.

 

The cop clears his throat. “If you guys are FBI then I'm a blue nosed gopher,” he says.

 

 

****

 

 

“So what was it like being eighteen again?” Sam asks, turning Zeppelin down an hour into the drive out of town.

 

Dean considers. “My voice is way deeper now,” he says.

 

The Impala's headlights pick out the road signs that tell them they're entering Wyoming, 'Forever West'. They'd recruited Sheriff Segan and his deputy into the growing ranks of supernatural savvy law enforcement and stayed to salt and burn the remains, but declined another night in their blood-splattered motel room.

 

“Yes it is,” Sam says, letting pleasure infuse his voice. He snakes his hand across the seat to play with the outer seam of Dean's jeans.

 

Dean bats it away. “ _ Two hours _ to Cora,” he says. “Cut that shit out.” But Sam ignores him, tracing a languid path onto Dean's upper thigh. 

 

“You know, we don't have to wait 'til Cora,” Sam says, circling higher and making Dean squirm, “We could pull over and jerk each other off in the back. Like teenagers.”

 

Dean glances at him, “Pull over where?” he says, tone incredulous.

 

“Anywhere.” Sam finds Dean's bulge with practised fingers and teases at it softly with his fingernails. “In the trees. No one will find us in the dark.”

 

Dean sucks in air through his teeth. “But the undercarriage,” he says. “The mud.”

 

“But the two hour wait,” Sam moans with fake-breathlessness, “My mouth on your cock.” Dean's fingers tighten around the steering wheel and Sam presses his hand flat over the now hard line, smug in the knowledge that he's already won; that he probably had Dean at 'Like teenagers' and the rest is bravado.

 

Sure enough, Dean switches to parking lights and pulls off the highway. He bumps the Impala across the grassy verge, carefully as possible and cursing the whole time. Sam holds onto Dean's thigh until they're hidden amongst the trees and Dean turns off the lights completely. “This is dumb,” Dean says, loud in the space left by the engine, but he's quick enough to help shift the front seat forwards as far as it'll go and climb into the back with Sam.

 

 

****

 

 

“I thought we were gonna jerk off and-” Dean forgets what he was saying, burying his face in the leather and moaning as Sam does the tongue trick to Dean's rim that makes him want to weep.

 

“And?” Sam prompts, pausing in his ministrations. His fingers are clamped around the base of Dean's dick and Dean bucks against it, desperate for some friction.

 

“ _Findamotel_ ,” Dean finishes, rocking his head from side to side. Sam's been edging him, alternately sucking his dick and fingering him for what feels like hours, but is probably more like forty minutes. Dean never wants it to stop, almost as much as he wants to come. “Don't stop.”

 

“Turn over.” Sam says, slapping Dean's ass cheek and _fuck_ , even that's a tease that goes straight to Dean's dick. 

 

It's so good when Sam finally slides into him; it's the fucking high point of Dean's  _ life _ . It's partly physical pleasure but also the look on Sam's face, the one that tells Dean that Sam needs him, just as badly as Dean needs Sam. “Oh fuck! God, fuck,  _ Sam _ ,” Dean says and Sam seems to understand. 

 

Dean can make out Sam's eyes in the dark, but only just. It's so intense. When did this get so intense? Sam moves in him, hollowing Dean out all over again and re-making his home for the billionth time. Dean's full, full of love and full of Sam's dick, and this moment right here, this is the meaning of  fulfilled _. _ Tears run from the corners of Dean's eyes unchecked, and he thinks, hopes, that Sam won't notice in the dark, but Sam wipes them away with his thumb. “Shhh,” Sam says, rocking into Dean, never letting up. 

 

They kiss and Dean gives himself, as much as he can to Sam.  _ Everything _ , he promises Sam silently with his body.  _ All of me, always _ . 

 

Sam gets a hand on Dean's dick. He works it and Dean feels his orgasm build for the millionth time, except that this time he's allowed. “Yeah,” Sam says, “Yeah, Dean, come on, come for me.” He jerks Dean skilfully, but Dean's been on edge for too long and his body has forgotten how to fall over.

 

Sam braces himself higher, fucks into Dean harder and faster. His eyes boring into Dean's soul and he says “I need you Dean, I  _ need  _ you.”

 

Dean comes, or more accurately he shakes apart at the seams, and the relief is immense. 

 

Sam closes the gap, fucking fast and chasing his own release. Dean half-heartedly clenches around him but he's muzzy and out of it. There's been a lot of that going around today. Sam doesn't take long. His body shudders and Dean holds him through the spasms of it.

 

 

****

 

 

Somewhere in Wyoming, on the endless highway of their lives, Dean lies awake beneath Sam. He thinks about how lucky he is, about how much he loves Sam and how they're really nothing more than big sleepy animals, hidden amongst the trees.

 


End file.
